"042 (B046) - The Midas Man (1936-08) - Lester Dent" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

AT this point, a very large Negro, wearing a neat blue uniform, stepped up to Alex Mandebran and saluted deftly.
"Ah got an official cah waitin' foh yo', suh," he said.
Alex Mandebran blinked. "I do not understand."
"Police, boss," said the Negro. "They done want to be nice to yo' all. In this heah cah, ye' can make a quick trip, an' it won' cos' a cent."
Taking off his hat, Alex Mandebran ran his fingers through his hair. "The police want to question me?"
"Ah reckons dey do," said the big black man. "Ah wouldn't know."
The car proved to be a large, dark limousine. The big Negro in the uniform handed young Mandebran into the rear and got behind the wheel. The car rolled away from the airport and headed for Philadelphia.
Three other cars followed. These machines held newspaper reporters, who had orders to keep tab on young Mandebran.
The three cars of the newspapermen started out with full expectations of keeping the machine ahead in sight. They received a surprise. The dark limousine traveled faster and faster. The newspapermen pushed their cars to the utmost, but they were rapidly left behind. Within twenty minutes, the newshawks had lost all trace of the black car. Thus they missed a bit of drama which would surely have been good for headlines.
Alex Mandebran in the black car became alarmed at the excessive speed.
"I say, driver!" he called. "We are hardly going to a fire!"
This got no results. Alex Mandebran rapped sharply on the glass which separated the driver's compartment. The big Negro piloting the machine did not even look around. The young man tried to crank the glass down. It would not budge. He endeavored to open the doors. They would not open. He tackled the windows. No luck there, either.
"What the hell does this mean?" Mandebran shrieked, completely shedding his English accent.
Getting no answer, he wrenched off a shoe and employed it to beat against the glass. The glass was like armor plate. Alex Mandebran sank back on the cushions, somewhat pale.
The black limousine had left the main highway by now, and was jouncing over rough roads. Turning off sharply into a grove of trees, it stopped. The driver got out, calmly opened the rear door.
"Damn you, whoever you are!" Alex Mandebran gritted, and leaped to the attack.
The thirty seconds or so which ensued were brisk and discomfiting to Mandebran. Not only did he fail to bear the other down with his charge, but he was seized, lifted and slammed to the earth so hard that the breath left his lungs.
The captor held his wrists easily, searched him for a weapon, but found none.
"Blast you! What are—"
Alex Mandebran went abruptly silent, for he had gotten a look at one of his captor's wrists.
Some of the disguising color had been rubbed off the wrists in the struggle. The captor was unmistakably a white man.
"What's the meaning of this?" Alex Mandebran demanded.
THE reply of the mysterious black driver was to begin wiping more of the coloring off his features. He worked rapidly, employing a chemical remover which came in a tube, and which he had been carrying in a pocket.
Alex Mandebran began to stare in amazement. He all but rubbed his eyes in disbelief.
"Good night!" he gasped.
"So you recognize me?"
Alex Mandebran wet his lips. "I—I recognize you from your pictures!" he admitted, jerkily.
Alex Mandebran was now urged into the limousine, and the erstwhile Negro chauffeur got behind the wheel. The car was shortly swallowed by the woods.
Chapter IV. THE STRANGE SON
IT was around noon when a tall and very huskily built young gentleman presented himself at the office of the Philadelphia police chief and requested the privilege of an interview with whoever was in charge of the Jethro Mandebran investigation.
"What name shall I say?" inquired the reception clerk.
"Alexander Cromwell Mandebran," said the young man.
A few minutes later, the young man was confronting the police chief, district attorney, a Federal investigator, police officials and a number of newspaper reporters.
"We had expected you earlier," he was told.
"I took the wrong road," the young man explained.
The district attorney asked, "Do you object to the presence of newspapermen?"
"Not at all."
"You are Alexander Cromwell Mandebran, Jethro Mandebran's son?" he was asked.
"I think I can prove that," the young man said, and smiled slightly. "I have a number of letters." He now produced envelopes addressed to Alexander Cromwell Mandebran in assorted English and European cities. These were examined.
While the scrutiny was taking place, a newspaperman nudged his companion. Both of the journalists had been at the airport when Alex Mandebran landed, and had been with the party of scribes which had later lost the scion of missing wealth.
"Notice anything queer about friend Alex?" whispered the scribbler.
His companion examined Alex Mandebran intently. "Nope. Why?"
"Maybe it's my imagination," said the other.
The investigators handed back the letters which they had been scrutinizing.
"Satisfactory?" demanded the young man.
"Yes," he was told.
THE Federal investigator studied Alex Mandebran, then asked, "Are you married?"
"No."
"At one time you were engaged to a young woman named Sylvan Niles," the investigator stated.
Alex Mandebran looked surprised. "How did you know that?"